


oh holy night

by emptypalm



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptypalm/pseuds/emptypalm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I read two interviews: one where Pete says that his keyhole tattoo represents things that are just for him, that other people can’t get to, and another where I think Patrick says that he and Pete didn’t stop writing music together over the break.</p>
<p>Out of those two things, you get this. The show is the 12/11/11 in Cleveland House of Blues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh holy night

**Author's Note:**

> There are two kinds of Fall Out Boy fans: ones who ship Patrick/Pete in some way (brotp/romantic/smutty/something in between) and dirty fucking liars. This was titled "oh holy night" in my google docs so, yeah.

It was hot and sweaty and Patrick really still wasn’t all that used to performing without a mouth pressed to his neck, the glimpse of a crazy afro, or the steady pulse of Andy’s drum behind him.

Still, the thrill of the crowd was almost the same. He could feel it work from his toes up, curl around the nape of his neck and settle there. Not necessarily on edge, but it thrummed through him, made him smile breathlessly as he scanned the crowd while he took them in. Not a huge venue by any means, but it was all the best for it. Patrick could see the crowd, see faces mouth the words to _his_ songs, _his_ creations.

A flash of dark hair caught his attention first, pulling through the chorus of This City while narrowing his eyes just faintly. It was familiar twisting in his heart as he moved to the bridge, eyes flicking down for a moment before they were back to the crowd and it was gone. It wasn’t unusual, really, to see things in the crowd that weren’t actually there. 

Spotlight had the entire venue singing along, making Patrick smile like an idiot throughout the entire thing. A too-white smile amongst the faces, barely there but enough for Patrick to look harder. And, okay, it wasn’t as though it was the first time he thought he had seen Pete in the crowd. It happened at least once every show, a sort of heart-wrenching thing. He thought he saw Joe and Andy too, sometimes. Dirty less frequently, but they all made him pause. These faces so ingrained in his memory that he saw them everywhere. But this time he paused and lingered, and eventually, he knew he wasn’t crazy.

There was Pete Wentz in the middle of it all, smiling and mouthing the words at Patrick.

The flush was a reflex, really, and being on stage no one would really notice. Pete was smiling like Patrick hadn’t seen in months, singing along with every word because Patrick knew he listened to his album like a lullaby. That Patrick would always been his favorite song, no matter what. It made him feel a little better when he stumbled over the words, catching himself and carrying on as if nothing happened.

If anyone noticed if Pete Wentz, _the_ Pete Wentz, was in the crowd, nothing was said. When Patrick finished his set it wasn’t with his usual drain of adrenaline and wind down. No, if anything he was even more wound up, bowing and smiling and stumbling off stage to grab a towel and mop under the rim of his fedora. 

He had about a second to compose himself before there was a hand to the small of his back and an affectionate nuzzle to his sweaty temple. That second wasn’t nearly enough, Patrick jerking away from it on instinct before barking out a laugh. Of course it was Pete, now both arms wrapped around Patrick’s waist, aggressively nuzzling him, complete with the quiet growling noises.

“What are you doing here?” was the first thing Patrick could think of, holding Pete away at shoulder distance while they just smiled at each other like idiots. 

“I came to see Hot Chelle Rae. They’re totally my favorite band right now,” Pete answered, flawless, but his toothy grin was enough of an answer. Especially with the way Pete’s hands settled on either side of Patrick’s neck, dragging him closer and resting their foreheads together to whisper, “You were amazing. Absolutely phenomenal. I felt twenty-two again, watching you sing for the first time.”

It was humbling to hear. “So you’ve got a half-formed idea and a chubby right now?” he asked instead of something more personal or sentimental. He also covered Pete’s hands with his own for a moment, bringing them down. 

“Yes to both,” Pete murmured, leaning forward for a quick peck to Patrick’s cheek before respecting the boundaries that he clearly wanted. Needed right now, because Patrick couldn’t think. How long had it been since he’d seen Pete in person? Four months, he knew logically. They Skyped three days ago when they both had some down time, did it often enough. Traded texts and emails. Since the hiatus they hadn’t stopped talking. Pete hadn’t stopped sending him lyrics, Patrick hadn’t stopped reading them and parsing them together into songs he could write music for. It was just a part of him, a part of _them_. 

The dressing room was tiny and Pete immediately sat on a table in front of the vanity mirror, legs kicking while Patrick packed up some things. His body was still ringing from performing, from seeing Pete, so it didn’t take long before Patrick was distracted enough to throw down the shirt he’d worn to the venue and come over to him. Not quite standing between his legs, but not really keeping a distance, either.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Patrick asked, genuinely curious. It wasn’t as though they didn’t talk enough.

“Wanted to see how you felt,” Pete answered honestly, hands on the rim of the table in order to lean his weight back slightly. He didn’t specify exactly, but Patrick could connect the dots. “You’re as open as a book when you sing. I just wanted to see how you’d react.”

Patrick wanted to scowl, but he settled for pressing his lips together and turning away, continuing to pack up some things. Laptop charger, jeans he’d worn before changing into his suit. “Chicago and Cleveland aren’t exactly neighbors,” he pointed out, zipping up his bag and throwing it at Pete.

Pete caught it with a barely there grunt, raising an eyebrow at the statement. “A+ for geography. I knew there was a reason I let you finish high school before whisking you away,” he answered, a dry little roll that Patrick was used to.

“Har, har,” Patrick murmured, taking off his fedora for only a brief moment to run his hand through his hair and smooth it back down. “I’ve got a hotel tonight. I assume you’re staying?”

“It’s a thousand dollars for the whole night, sugar,” Pete drawled, sickly sweet, smiling too wide again and it warmed Patrick from the inside out.

“Five hundred dollars,” Patrick argued, coming over and actually standing between Pete’s legs now, leaning into his space, hands on the table at either of Pete’s hips.

“Seven hundred,” Pete countered, leaning forward and resting their foreheads together again. The room wasn’t private, anyone could walk in at any moment, but Patrick allowed it.

“Sold, to the thirty-two year old in tight pants,” Patrick murmured, eyes flicking down to Pete’s mouth. The kiss was chaste, all things considered, initiated by Pete but Patrick leaned into it faintly.

He had fans to meet, things to sign. Pete understood without Patrick saying anything, letting him pull away. “I would have stayed for five hundred!” Pete called, though, when Patrick was at the door.

“I would have paid a thousand,” Patrick answered with a short grin, slipping through the door and disappearing.

***

It was almost two hours later when Patrick got back to the hotel, pushing into his room with a slow exhale. He was used to empty hotel rooms by now, nights alone. Sometimes, _sometimes_ , he called Pete at night. It was easier to fall asleep with the sound of breathing over static. Tour was never easy, it was even harder by yourself. But Patrick was happy with it, happy with what he was doing right now.

He was just also happy to find Pete asleep in his bed, sprawled out naked. 

Patrick took a moment to appreciate the sight. One arm over his head, all that dark skin against the cream of the sheets. Each and every tattoo that Patrick knew better than his own freckles at this point, some of them he’d been there for, others he had to hear the story behind second hand. Pete was shameless like this, face soft and relaxed, looking a little too old and yet younger at the same time. He’d put on weight in the passing years, shoulders and arms broad and strong from carrying a little boy. He’d always been attracted to Pete, and his tastes had matured with him. It had Patrick smiling, ducking his head and placing his hat and coat on a chair before heading to the bathroom.

Pete must have already showered, if the wetness in the tub and Patrick’s used toiletries were anything to go by. He was tired, letting the water sluice over him without any active bathing going on. He washed his hair quickly, scrubbing some soap over the important bits, and then he was done, skin tinged pink with the heat but feeling even more exhausted.

Pete was awake when Patrick came into the room, leaning against the headboard and watching Patrick move with sleepy eyes. The flush from the shower was enough to hide his blush, walking over to his bag in order to find something to wear.

“Come to bed,” Pete said, resting his chin against his own shoulder, watching Patrick quietly.

Patrick knew what he meant--skip the clothes, come to bed. There was a difference in modesty between the two of them, Patrick looking towards his clothes longingly before looking back to Pete. There was a crook of Pete’s fingers, beckoning him closer, and there was so much bare skin that Patrick actually did want to touch. Pete had seen him worse, kissed every inch of his skin then, too.

He still got under the sheets, though, moving to slide down and nestle underneath. It was November chilly so he had no idea how Pete was so comfortable being so naked. But he was, turning to look at Patrick, lifting the sheet to peek underneath and make Patrick laugh quietly.

“You look so different,” Pete murmured, resting a hand against Patrick’s shoulder, stroking the shower-soft skin. “I’m still not used to it.”

“Neither am I, really,” Patrick confessed, turning to kiss the back of Pete’s hand. More than a decade with someone and they had all changed so much, it would take some time getting used to. Even Pete looked older now, so different from the fresh-faced twenty-two year old he once knew. His eyes crinkled at the side when he smiled too wide, not nearly as flexible or as proud as he once was.

They laid together for a little while, just breathing and looking at one another. It was a luxury to be able to do this, though being together at all in person was a luxury these days. With the band on hiatus, a son to raise, and both of them doing touring, it was _hard_. But being with Pete had never been easy before, he didn’t expect it to be now.

Pete curled his hand against Patrick’s cheek, moving to the nape of his neck to squeeze before kissing him. Slowly, with purpose, both of their eyes shutting with it. Something unwound in Patrick, making him let out a slow breath into Pete’s mouth, tasting the way Pete smiled.

“I’m proud of you,” Pete whispered, nuzzling their noses together. “I’m so proud.”

“You seem like it,” Patrick murmured, because Pete had always been Patrick’s confidence. He wasn’t a singer before Pete. He was the musician he was today because of him. Humbled, softened. “Something’s up though. I know you too well.”

“‘I just…” Pete started, biting his lip through a sigh. “I just want to keep you here,” he finished, touching the keyhole tattoo and it made Patrick soften considerably, sighing out on his own.

He understood, though, leaning up to kiss Pete warmly. Just a press of their mouths together, getting familiar with the feel again. To fit into the new cracks in Pete’s veneer wasn’t an easy feat, but Patrick was practiced in it, just like Pete was. They had always loved each other too much to give up.

“I’m yours,” Patrick said, resting his head against the pillow and smiling faintly. “Just as much as you’re mine, dude. You don’t have to doubt that.”

“It’s different, when I’m sharing you with _our_ fans,” Pete answered, sounding a little guilty. “Sharing you with people that are only there for _you_ , it… it does something to me, you know? Hearing these girls call you hot and saying they want to bang you and get you alone, it gets under my skin. Hearing people say you’re better off without Fall Out Boy, without _me_ , it settles into my bones.”

Patrick nodded, understanding in his own way. “But guess who the only person I want to be with is?” he asked, soothed, stroking his hand back through Pete’s hair. “ _I’m_ in your bones, I’ve put them together. Let’s be alone together.”

Pete’s laugh sounded a little too strained, shaking his head and subsequently nuzzling his face into Patrick’s neck. “What else is new?” he mumbled, not sounding upset, really. 

Pete had always been the aggressor between the two of them. It took Patrick years to realize he could touch, that he was allowed to, because crippling self-esteem issues and self-doubt did that to you. He was older now, unsurprisingly not a teenager, and that made things easier. It was easier to reach out, touch all that warm skin that he’d been so enthralled with for so long. He touched the keyhole tattoo lightly, brought Pete’s hand to his mouth to kiss it. 

It took a lot of confidence that Patrick had started harvesting to push Pete onto his back, move over him and pinning him down with hands on his shoulders in order to kiss him silly. At the end of the day, he missed Pete. He missed his best friend, his lover, the person in this world that understood him like no one else ever had or ever could. It had never been an easy journey, but at least it was one that they had always made together. Patrick’s break up, Pete’s multiple break ups, Ashlee’s pregnancy, their failed marriage, _Bronx_ \-- the perfect mix of Ashlee and Pete and so sweet it made Patrick’s chest hurt. 

Pete tasted a little like sleep and mint, his hands pushing down the sheet from around Patrick’s shoulders in order to touch skin. Pete had always had a thing for his skin, downy soft and too pale, tinged with pink at even the slightest thing. Scratch marks and bruises stayed for days, the shape of Pete’s teeth in the curve of his shoulder for a week. Pete’s skin was a little harder, but Patrick had spent years perfecting it. 

They were getting older but no less desperate, soft kisses turning wet and messy, embarrassingly so. Pete’s nails scraped along the skin of his hips, up his side, making Patrick hiss and laugh and turn away from it, punching him in the arm lightly. There was that lazy grin from Pete, slick-lipped and happy, before Patrick was kissing him again and again, until his lips burned and his thighs started to ache from the position.

It didn’t matter though, not with the way Pete’s hands were tracing over his back, down to his ass, rolling over his hips and settling on his thighs while they kissed. Restless with wanting to touch, and Patrick was the same. His fingertips traced the thorns, down Pete’s arms, knowing each and every one by heart by now. He let his hand cover over the Bartskull, sitting back enough to look at it, wrap his fingers around Pete’s cock because it had been too long. 

The catch in Pete’s throat was enough to answer the question Patrick never could make himself ask--has there been anyone else? He would never ask because Pete would never ask the same of him. It didn’t matter in the grander scheme of things, because this Pete was someone that no one saw. This side of Patrick was for Pete to keep.

“Do you have anything?” Pete breathed into his mouth, arching up a little against Patrick, wiggling his hips to slide further down on the bed and align them a little better.

“Nope,” Patrick answered, nipping into his mouth with a small smile. “If I had known you were coming…”

Pete’s bark of laughter startled him briefly, loud and close. “Great, yeah, that’s what we needed to see--Fall Out Boy’s quiet, mild-mannered lead singer buys industrial sized lubricant from pharmacy.”

“Industrial sized?” Patrick knew he sounded horrified, but the image was startling. 

“Okay, okay,” Pete said, like he’d made up his mind. He parts his legs enough so that Patrick could kneel between them, hooking them around Patrick’s waist so he could have some leverage too. “Old school frottage, excellent. I can get behind this.”

Patrick smothered a laugh in Pete’s shoulder, scraping his teeth against the skin there. This was warm, familiar. It was surprisingly hard to have sex on tour. Patrick liked being clean, liked to be able to have a shower afterwards. Fucking was surprisingly loud (or really, not that surprising) and a bus filled with dudes definitely didn’t make the best atmosphere. Hotel nights were nice, but few and far between sometimes. Porn didn’t prepare gay men at _all_ for anal sex, or what to do when you hadn’t taken a shit for two days. And then there was the issue of lube, prep, cleaning, condoms--it was a little time consuming, and normally they were chasing the high of coming off stage, or just too tired to do anything.

This rhythm felt familiar, though. Pete on his back with Patrick rocking against him. The little twitches of Pete’s hips, the shallowness of his breathing, the hooded look to his eyes. It was all too familiar, really, making Patrick moan out something low, arch his body to bury his face into Pete’s neck and _hide_.

“Remember when?” Pete asked softly, voice thick while one hand traced down the line of Patrick’s spine. Patrick didn’t have any idea what he was actually talking about, listening to Pete spit in his hand, slick his palm up, stroke over both of them to make things slide a little smoother. “Remember when I would crawl into your bunk at night? Curl up against you, tell you I couldn’t sleep, and you’d kiss me and jerk me off until I was cumming all over your hand and belly?”

_God_ did Patrick remember. Too tight bunks, kissing Pete to keep him quiet, with Andy and Joe just on the other side of the door. Pete was insufferable and cranky, off meds and on meds again, not able to sleep and walking around like a zombie. The first time had been an accident--Patrick too sleepy, Pete whining in his ear enough to do anything to make it stop. Adrenaline had made Patrick bold, slip a hand into Pete’s pants as he watched the way his pupils blew wide and he went quiet. 

It was almost the same, and yet so different. Pete was thicker, heavier, hair natural and scruff darkening his cheeks and jaw. It wasn’t the same smoothed face kid that wore eyeliner, straightened his hair everyday, and only donned too-tight pants and Patrick was glad for that. (Though the pants had stayed, he was _very_ thankful for that.) The man beneath him was shameless in a completely different ways, humble in places, soft in others. 

“Usually, _I’m_ the one that can’t shut _my_ head off,” Pete mumbled through sticky lips, a hand against the nape of Patrick’s neck pulling him down for a kiss. And Patrick let him taste the desperation there, the odd swell of emotion in his chest that was a little too much, too tight.

Pete mumbled something in response, a hitch in his voice when Patrick snapped his hips forward particularly rough. The friction was too good, wrapped up in their memories, their kiss not really much more than breathing into each other’s mouths. Wet and absent, feeling Pete smile and tasting his laugh until Patrick was laughing too.

Pushing back was an effort, Patrick resting on his knees and looking down the length of Pete. Pete looked a little too satisfied, resting a hand against his own stomach, skimming it down and gripping the base of his cock. It was hard not to stare, still a little in awe that this was _his_. As much as Pete was ever anyone’s, plus more. So much more. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Patrick said, a hand against Pete’s wrist to bring it to his mouth, kiss his palm, lick along the center of it. “And I want to do awful, dirty things to you and make you feel beautiful.”

“It’s your sweet talk I love the most, I think,” Pete murmured, pushing a finger into Patrick’s mouth. First with one, watching with rapt attention when Patrick swirled his tongue around it. He added a second one, mesmerized, Patrick’s tongue pushing between them in order to lick at the webbing between.

Patrick laughed out when Pete used his legs to tug him closer, thighs clenching on his hips. Patrick went willing, bracing his forearms on either side of Pete’s face to smile down at him. He kissed his forehead, his eyelids, licking the tip of his nose and trying to get his tongue into Pete’s nostril until Pete laughed and pushed his face away. They were like kids then, shoving and pushing, laughing into each other’s mouths. Pete worked his fingers up under Patrick’s armpits, wiggling and making him squirm and jerk.

It ended with Pete braced over Patrick, both of them panting heavy, still hard, flushed from laughing and rolling around. It took moments for them to fall quiet, Patrick looking up at Pete now, humming out before reaching his hand out. He skimmed up Pete’s arm, palm warm against all the ink that Patrick knew the taste of, watching him with heavy eyes. The weight was familiar, twisting that heat in the pit of Patrick’s stomach into a fire.

Pete met him halfway when Patrick leaned up to kiss him, and now, _now_ , this was about biting and hunger. This was about Pete hooking Patrick’s leg over his shoulder in a true display of flexibility, a little uncomfortable with the stretch to his side but he did it in order to meet Pete’s lips and the thrusts against him.

Sex with someone for ten years seemed daunting at the beginning, but now it was practically a blessing. Patrick knew where to tease, thumb rolling against Pete’s nipple, missing the glint of metal that used to be there. He skimmed his mouth over Pete’s neck, teeth against his pulse, smirking at the way Pete’s thrust faltered only slightly before he was rearranging Patrick’s legs. Both of Pete’s hands at the back of his knees, pushing his legs up and apart, making Patrick flush all the way down to his chest with just how _exposed_ he was.

The friction was just as good as it always was, but Patrick didn’t want to be teased anymore. He reached down with both hands since Pete’s were otherwise occupied, wrapping around their cocks and giving Pete something to fuck into. _There_ , that was the sweet spot, making Patrick’s breathing a little more shallow and Pete’s thrusts erratic. Patrick knew. He knew to swipe his thumb just under the head of Pete’s cock in every upstroke, knew how to touch him because Pete had showed him hundreds of times. Alone in the bunks, with muted lights and Patrick’s hands all over him except for where it really counted.

Once upon a time, Patrick had a relatively romantic concept of sex. He thought of beautiful women with thick curves and long hair that would cum gracefully and collapse against his chest. He was probably sixteen at the time, remembered vividly that the woman didn’t really have a name, or a face, but Patrick knew the _feeling_. He could _hear_ everything. Her breathy sighs, the feeling of contentment in his chest from doing a good job. For pleasing his partner. Then they would drift off to sleep as they were, too content to move, too happy to care.

Instead, what he got was Pete Wentz trying to hold back a groan and, for all intents and purposes, making one of the most unattractive sounds in the universe. Something between a grunt and a burp, pushed out of him like it _hurt_ and it probably did. So used to being in bunks and tiptoeing around Bronx, being loud was a luxury. But Patrick still thought him to be one of the most gorgeous things in the world, even with his face scrunched up and eyes screwed shut while he came over Patrick’s fingers, dripping onto his belly and fucking into his fist until he was spent.

And then he collapsed on him.

There was nothing graceful about it, just a good ole fashioned keel over. He thankfully remembered to drop Patrick’s legs, apparently conscientious enough to remember that time Patrick pulled his hamstring because of him, and just landed on him. Sweaty, sticky, reeking of sex. And maybe Patrick had never thought that this would be his, maybe it never matched up to his fantasies when he was younger, but damned if he didn’t want it now.

“You going to finish me off or what?” Patrick asked, arching his hips under Pete’s waist, tilting his head away at the scrape of Pete’s stubble against the sensitive skin of his neck. That would leave a mark in the morning.

“Yeah, it’s definitely your sweet talk,” Pete mumbled, lips sticky against Patrick’s shoulder. He shifted his lower body enough to reach a hand down awkwardly and wrap his fingers around Patrick. It was more of a mental overload than anything--Pete’s cum slicking the way of his fingers, Pete’s body sated and warm and real on top of him. He didn’t think he was nearly as close as he apparently was, gasping loudly when his orgasm was practically punched out of him thanks to Pete’s clever fingers.

Pete continued to stroke him through it, Patrick occasionally trembling, getting soft and too sensitive but that only meant that Pete lightened his touch. When he was finally ready to stop Patrick was drained, face pushed to the side of the pillow to avoid yawning in Pete’s face. 

They laid together until they could breathe normally again, Pete just shy of too heavy against his chest but there was something endearing and entirely too sexy about Pete being wider than he was now. Patrick mouthed along Pete’s shoulders, wide from Bronx sitting on them, faintly sweaty and perfect. 

“I remember that lasting a lot longer,” Pete said after a few moments.

Patrick chuckled, rolling enough to shove Pete off. “Can’t be young forever, man.”

Patrick didn’t really like to touch anyone or anything when he slept, and Pete was the exact opposite. The usually compromised with linked ankles, or Pete’s arm around his waist and no other point of contact. Tonight, though, Pete slid right up behind Patrick, swiping some tissues he must have grabbed from the nightstand against his stomach and Patrick’s before throwing them to the floor.

“We could,” Pete murmured, a kiss to the nape of Patrick’s neck.”We could stay young forever.”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbled back, fond, attempting to push Pete off of him to no avail. He was stuck like this, with Pete as a human blanket. And all and all, things could definitely be worse.

***

Patrick woke to an empty bed and a running shower.

He wasn’t someone that woke up gradually, it was all or nothing. So as soon as he was awake his eyes were open, sitting up slowly in bed, letting the sheets pool around his waist. He did a couple of stretches, arms above his head, feeling his spine pop when he slowly bent to grab the soles of his feet. He was oddly sore through his hips, and he knew that much would distract him all day.

It was almost an accident, noticing the sheet of paper on the bed. It was part of the bible in the nightstand, Patrick knew, adding another to the tally of bibles they’ve had to replace across the country. (Triple digits at this point, thanks guys.) He was used to these, little snippets of Pete’s thoughts tucked into his pockets, books, bags, bunk, _shoes_. Anything.

Patrick read the words once, twice, blinking his eyes before rolling his eyes faintly and saying aloud, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” to no one in particular.

***

“ _Let’s be alone together_ ,” Patrick sang, dipping his head back to listen to the crowd shout _yeah!_ in time with Pete, Joe, and Andy.

“ _We can stay young forever,_ ” again he pulled away from the microphone, looking over to see Pete grinning at him like an idiot. And despite all reasoning; despite everything they’d been through, ups, downs, sideways; despite almost fifteen years together, Patrick smiled right back at him. 

“ _We’ll stay young, young, young, young, young_.”


End file.
